


Ghost of You

by ghostsofyou



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: 5 Seconds Of Summer Imagines, 5 Seconds of Summer - Freeform, 5SOS - Freeform, Angst, Based on a 5 Seconds of Summer Song, Gen, Ghost of You by 5 Seconds of Summer, Sad, Songfic, ghost of you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-19 18:45:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15516210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostsofyou/pseuds/ghostsofyou
Summary: I’ll chase it down like I always do, dancing through our house with the ghost of you.





	Ghost of You

Waves softly lapped up onto the beach, water grazing his ankles as he walked along the shore. He felt the roughness of the dog’s leash in one hand and the tenderness of her hands enveloping the other. The feeling of content warmed his stomach while the setting sun warmed his skin. An uncontrollable grin broke out onto his face.

“What are you so happy for?” She teased him, just loudly enough to be heard over the ocean.

He thought about it for a second. It was hard to put his finger on what specifically was contributing to his good mood when he was around her. “Just love you is all”.

She started to say it back, but her words came out garbled. Pausing, she frowned and tried again. Her mouth formed the words “I love you”, but it just sounded like a distorted mess. She stopped walking, planting her feet firmly in the sand.

His heart dropped into his stomach; he thought it had been different this time. He felt the familiar dread settle into his bones. His grip on her hands tightened. “Love you”, he repeated himself a little too loudly to sound completely calm. 

Alarm flooded her face as everything began blurring. Hot tears pricked at his eyes. In the past, he would’ve begun calling out for help, frantically scanning the beach for anyone who could make it stop. At this point, he was resigned. He knew what was coming. 

“I’m sorry”, he choked out around the lump in his throat as she faded into the vignette of his mind's eye. 

His ears started ringing as he resentfully became aware of his senses. The afternoon light filtered past his eyelids despite how hard he squeezed them shut. His heavy arms reached out to feel her reassuring touch, but found nothing. Of course, the bed was empty. 

It took him a second to register this, along with the wetness streaming down his face. A sob of frustration escaped his throat. If he had been dreaming for a few more minutes, she would have calmed him down. She would have told him he’d be just fine in that way she did that made it sound true even when it wasn’t, and he would have believed her.

He laid there for a long while, trying to convince himself he could fall asleep and slip right back into the dream. When the dull ache of hunger was added to the mix of unpleasant emotions churning in his stomach, he uncurled his body and swung his legs over the bed. 

Stumbling into the kitchen, he locked eyes with her old coffee cup. He emitted a strangled sound of pain and steadied himself against the counter. The cool tile against his palms helped to ground him as he took a shuddering breath in. Her lipstick stain was still visible on the rim of the cup, albeit faded with time. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to wash it yet. It would just be another reminder of the impermanence of everything he had left of her. 

He opened his pantry to find it almost bare. Sighing, he turned to face the rest of his apartment. It was a dismal sight. He hadn’t had friends over in ages and was in no hurry to change anything about his space. Little traces of her were littered all about- her magazines on the coffee table, her keys hung on the key rack, her receipts in a bundle on the counter. 

Maybe it was time to start cleaning up. It had been months. The nightmares weren’t getting any better, and it probably wasn’t helping to have everything look like it did when she was still here. 

He eventually decided he should start with the bedroom. It had the most reminders of her and was consequently the place he hated being the most. After eating a small bowl of cereal, he trudged back to the room. 

Tentatively stepping onto her side, he glanced into the mirror. He gave an aborted laugh at the sight. He looked pathetic, which was exactly how he felt. She would have hated seeing him like this. 

He felt unsure of himself. He hadn’t really planned how he was going to go about this. Looking around, he decided he would start by organizing the pile of books on her nightstand. He awkwardly sat down on the bed- despite sleeping alone for some time, he refused to take up any space on her half- and breathed in deeply through his nose. His hands faltered in the air for a moment before he set them in his lap and exhaled heavily. It felt so wrong to move anything from exactly how she had left it. 

Before he could change his mind, he picked up her small collection and laid them out on the bed. He stacked them just how she liked it, with the hardcovers on the bottom, and then placed them back on the nightstand. 

He looked at himself in the mirror again. That wasn’t too bad. He just had to take it bit by bit and then maybe he’d be okay. 

Surveying the rest of her things, he saw a small corner of black fabric sticking out of a drawer in her dresser. He slid off of the bed and onto the floor, stretching his arm out to pull it open. His heart seized when he recognized it. 

It was her old Led Zeppelin shirt, the one she had worn the first night he realized things were getting bad. His chest ached at the memory, guilt gnawing away at him. 

There hadn’t even been a fight. Not even an argument, really. She had been quiet all week, and he had known something was wrong. He had tried to ask her about it, but he was abruptly shut down every time. He didn’t want to alienate her, so he stopped asking. That was his first mistake. 

She had told him she was going on a walk. He smiled bitterly. What a lame excuse, but he believed her. Second mistake. He should have known better. But then, how could he? He was too young, too naive to think about the consequences of his inaction. 

She returned the next morning. He had agonized all night over where she was, why she wasn’t answering her phone, if she was okay- and then there she was, standing right in front of him in that stupid Zeppelin shirt as though she had never left. 

Pure, unadulterated relief had flooded his system. He had wrapped her up in his arms so tightly he thought he might break a rib. That only lasted for a minute before he was shouting; his third mistake. He should have been calm and patient and then maybe he would have gotten somewhere. He let his fear manifest itself into anger and she immediately closed herself off. They had made up within the hour, but looking back, he couldn’t shake the shame pooling in his gut. He still didn’t know where she went that night, and now he never would. 

Maybe that was enough cleaning up for today. 

He soon ended up back in the kitchen, fumbling with two shot glasses and a near empty bottle of gin. Slowly pouring out two shots, he clinked the glasses together as if to say cheers, and tossed one back. 

He shuffled his phone out of his pocket and opened his music app. Scrolling for a moment, he clumsily pressed down on her favorite song. The melancholy notes seemed to fill up space in their house, making him feel less alone. He began to sway to the tranquil beat, the alcohol already taking its toll on his composure. 

Humming along, he lifted a hand and moved it in circles the way he had when he used to twirl her. He gracelessly moved his feet, a small smile flitting across his face as he recalled how she used to playfully tease him for his poor coordination. His eyes closed as he imagined her dancing with him, her laugh bouncing off of the walls and reverberating in his brain. 

The final notes of the song played out and he was knocked back down to reality. He poured himself another shot, leaving hers untouched. Giving a slight bark of a cough as it burned its way down his throat, he leaned against the counter dejectedly.

No matter how much he’d like to pretend, it would never be the same. Plain and simple. His feet would never dance like they did with her. The best he could hope for was dancing through their house with her ghost.


End file.
